


Patterns and Repetitions.

by themoononastick



Category: Panic At The Disco
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-16
Updated: 2011-06-16
Packaged: 2017-10-20 11:50:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/212500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themoononastick/pseuds/themoononastick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life on (and off) the road.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Patterns and Repetitions.

**Author's Note:**

> Birthday fic for foxxcub. Thanks to zelda_zee for the beta.

Sometimes Spencer thinks tour buses are why bands split up; too many egos in too small a space, with no room to escape and think and breathe. There are days when it feels like the bus is a pressure cooker waiting to explode, everyone on edge from too little sleep, in each other’s faces and spoiling for a fight.

Or maybe it’s just him that feels the constant claustrophobia clawing at his skin until he wants to shout at everyone to shut the fuck up and behave like normal adults, not like kids who’ve been fed too much sugar before bedtime. But he keeps quiet, bottles up all his resentments and hides them away because this thing, this band, is too important for him to fuck with just because his head feels muzzy from recycled air and his back aches from sleeping in a too small a space night after night.

So instead he climbs into his bunk, pulls the curtain closed, shuts his eyes and focuses on how this life he’s leading is the one he’s wanted since forever, regardless of how annoying it can sometimes be. And every time it all gets to be too much and he hides himself away, he wakes up, pulls back the curtain and he finds, on the floor by his bunk, a bottle of aspirin sitting beside a bottle of water frosty with condensation and a note in Jon’s messy scrawl that says:

 _Smile, Spencer Smith, it suits you._

And, despite all the irritations and the noise that feels like it will never end, Spencer always does.

~

Hotel nights are a luxury, a decadent sprawl of space and privacy with no need to worry about keeping quiet or someone else walking in. Spencer likes to stand on the bed and stretch his arms up high above his head, reveling in not being able to touch the ceiling.

Hotel nights mean Jon on his knees with Spencer’s fingers twisted in his hair, wet heat and panting breaths, Jon’s lips shiny-slick and stretched wide, looking up through his lashes as Spencer jerks his hips forward, pushing in as deep as he can.

Hotel nights mean Spencer white-knuckle-gripping the edge of a table with Jon’s hands on his hips, watching their reflections fuck in the mirror on the wall.

Hotel nights mean fucking in one bed and sleeping in the other, two sets of clean sheets too tempting a thing to ignore.

Hotel nights mean waking up in the morning and getting back on the bus. But somehow it feels bigger, less crowded when they do. The space around them stretched by the memories of the night before.

~

In Europe, they fuck in the stall of an airport men’s room when their flight is delayed. The fear of getting caught lost in a haze of mouths and grinding hips and Jon’s hand curled round both their cocks while Spencer fingers bruises onto Jon’s hips to match the ones already beginning to fade away.

When they go back outside and sit down again, hair ruffled, clothing hastily rearranged, Ryan rolls his eyes and laughs before burying his nose back into a magazine and Brendon curls up against Spencer’s side, inhales a deep breath and mumbles _You smell like sex_. Spencer thinks _I smell like Jon_ but really, it’s the same thing.

~

When the tour finally ends, Spencer goes home to Vegas, locks his door, turns off his Sidekick and unplugs his phone, determined to wallow in peace and quiet for at least a day. He lasts three hours – the silence he thought he’d missed so much is more deafening than even the loudest day on the road could ever be.

He turns his Sidekick back on and it buzzes to life almost instantly. Jon’s message is simple _I’m bored. Come visit me?_.

Spencer’s flight leaves the next day.

~

Spencer likes Chicago, not that he’s seen much of the city. Jon keeps suggesting places for them to visit but they haven’t made it any further than the grocery store at the end of the street. Spencer doesn’t really mind since he’s been introduced to every flat surface in Jon’s apartment and, in the scheme of things, that’s all he needs to see.

He lies sprawled out on Jon’s couch, head propped up on a cushion, legs hooked over the couch’s arm with Dylan perched on his belly, purring as Spencer softly strokes a hand through his fur. Spencer’s other arm hangs over the couch’s edge, hand resting in Jon’s lap, Jon’s thumb rubbing out a rhythm against his skin. Spencer feels the kind of bone-deep weariness that only comes from a day of doing nothing – just watching TV, talking crap and smoking weed - and, if he gets his way, he’ll never have to move again. Maybe, if he lays here for long enough, he’ll merge with the couch, become part of the furniture.

Spencer thinks he kind of likes that idea.

Jon chuckles at something on the TV, cartoon figures doing cartoon things. Spencer can feel Jon’s laughter vibrating through the couch and through his arm. He turns his head to see what’s so funny, tries to focus, but it’s too much effort. It’s way easier just to lie still and let his mind drift off.

Jon’s apartment is just the right side of chaotic, messy but comfortable with it. Spencer feels at home here, like he doesn’t need to worry about finding a coaster if he wants to set down a drink, or feel bad if he leaves the sections of the paper strewn out across the floor. He could get used to spending time here. If it wasn’t so far away from Vegas.

Jon’s stomach growls and he scrubs a hand through his hair muttering _food_ under his breath. He stands, turning and holding a hand out to pull Spencer up with him.

"C’mon, ‘m hungry, need food."

Spencer shakes his head no, pokes a finger into Jon’s thigh and says "Host.". When Jon’s brow furrows in confusion Spencer helps him out, pointing the finger back to himself saying, "Guest. Host’s bring guests food, guests don’t help."

"But it would be quicker if the guest got off his ass..." Jon quirks an eyebrow, mouth twisting into a grin.

Spencer tries hard to keep a serious look on his face as he points at Dylan saying, "Can’t move, Dylan won’t let me." He scratches under Dylan’s chin to make sure he won’t leave.

Jon fake sighs at the tragedy of it all, shooting a hurt look in Dylan’s direction, shoulders slumping as he speaks. "Stupid cat, turning traitor on me, after all I’ve done for you."

And right on cue, Dylan stretches a paw out, claws flexing gently against Spencer’s chest like he’s warning him to stay exactly where he is.

"It’s not my fault I’m irresistible." Spencer gives up on trying to look serious and just grins. "Now go get us something to eat."

Dinner is pizza delivered to the door. Jon made it as far as the phone before the effort of moving became too great. Later they fuck on the couch, slow and lazy like the day. They fall into bed as the dawn begins to break, waking up at noon in time to repeat it all again.

~

The cabin is like the bus but with cleaner air and more space to breathe. It’s different but it’s the same and they, the four of them, fall back into rhythm without missing a beat.

The cabin is long nights and short days, laughter and mood swings. The cabin is a whirlwind of noise and motion that never seems to end.

At night Spencer lies in the dark with Jon’s arm wrapped around his waist, the rough of Jon’s beard scratching patterns on his skin as Jon fidgets in his sleep. Just like the bus, the cabin is never silent, there’s a faint undertone of conversation and music that hums in the air and filters through the walls filling the space around them. And Spencer thinks that, yeah, there are days when it’s all too much and there are days when he longs for quiet and a shred of normality but, really, the truth is, there’s no place else he’d rather be.


End file.
